


Letters from the Seaside

by raiyana



Series: Modern Middle-Earth [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Death, Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mentions of Cancer, letters from deceased person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-14 00:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14759082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Glorfindel's mother dies in a house overlooking the sea; her spirit lives on only in memories - and the letters she wrote from her bed.





	1. Chapter 1

“I made a friend today, Mummy,” Glorfindel said quietly, opening the door to Mummy’s room, filled with bright sunlight and the sound of the ocean.

“Did you now, little light?” Mummy answered, smiling at him from her white pillows. “You had fun down on the beach with Miss Isobel?”

Glorfindel nodded, clutching the small gift in his small fist. “I brought you a pwesent,” he added, moving closer. Camille moved, but Mummy waved her back to her seat.

“Never stop my son, Camille,” she said, her voice taking on the edge he didn’t like even though she kept smiling at him. “Glorfindel won’t hurt me.”

“Yes, milady.”

Glorfindel nodded, tempted to stick his tongue out at mean Camille, but Mummy told him it was rude to do that, so he didn’t, clambering up onto the mattress by using the small steps hidden under the bedframe.

“Look!” he exclaimed, brandishing the small golden flower he had found. “It’s spring, Mummy!”

“What a perfect present,” Mummy smiled – it was small, and tired, but Mummy always smiled at him and Glorfindel returned it with a beaming grin. “Camille, do find a vase for it – put it on my nightstand…”

Glorfindel held out the flower, but Mummy was too tired to lift her head to sniff it and just patted his hand weakly. Camille took the small flower and placed it in the bud vase that Glorfindel had given Mummy for Yule.

“So tell me about your friend, little light,” Mummy said, gesturing him closer. Glorfindel burrowed into her side, careful not to jostle any tubes, and looked out across the sea through the windows, feeling Mummy’s thin arm wrap around him. Sometimes, she fell asleep, but he talked about his day anyhow; this was _his_ time with Mummy.

“His name’s Ectelon, Mummy, and he’s 5-and-half,” he began, talking about the darkhaired boy who had played ball with him and Nanny Haddock on the beach that morning. “He’s bigger’n me, but only a little – and he doesn’t have a Nanny Haddock, so I said he could share mine. He has a sister, though, but she’s old, like eighteen!”

“Is he a nice boy, Glorfindel?” Mummy murmured, running her fingers through his hair.

Glorfindel nodded. “Very nice. We played with the ball, and then Nanny helped us build castles – it was taller than me!”

“That sounds fun, sweetheart…”

“Your mother is tired, young Master, she needs to rest.” Glorfindel scowled at Camille, hugging Mummy’s arm – this was her good side, no tube in her hand.

“Let him stay… until I sleep…” Mummy wheezed slightly, her fingers stilling. “Tell me about your friend, little light.”

Glorfindel continued chatting until she fell asleep, the bright sunlight shut out by Camille yanking on the heavy curtains.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m going to leave you soon, Glorfindel,” Mummy said, giving him a sad smile.

Glorfindel dropped the tiny buttercup he had found. “Are you going back to ho’pital?” he asked.

Mummy shook her head. “No dearest one, I’m afraid there is nothing the hospital could do for me that Camille isn’t doing here, already.” Patting the mattress silently, Mummy waited until he had climbed up, pressing his customary kiss to her paper-thin cheek to make her smile. “I am leaving this world, little light,” Mummy murmured gently, “my body will stop working, because I am too sick to get better.”

“But Daddy said the doctors would make you better!” Glorfindel shouted. “He promised!”

“I know, darling… but they can’t always make people better. I am going to die – remember that bird you found last year, the one the cat caught?”

“You’re not a bird!” Mummy was wrong, she had to be. Daddy _promised_. “You can’t die!”

“All things die eventually, Glorfindel – and I’ve been sick for a very long time,” Mummy told him, but Glorfindel stuffed his fingers in his ears, hiding his face in her flat chest. “It’s alright to cry, my son…”

“Please don’t die, Mummy…” Glorfindel wept, but Mummy did not promise.

“I need you to remember something, Glorfindel, can you do that for me?” she asked instead. Glorfindel nodded, obeying the gentle pressure of her hand to turn his head, looking up at her blue eyes, stuck in the thin face that wasn’t really _his_ Mummy, even if she _was._ “I want you to remember that I do not regret it – I could never regret it, not once, because you are _everything_ , do you understand me?”

Glorfindel didn’t, not really, but he nodded and promised himself to remember. “No regrets,” he replied. Mummy smiled.

“I love you, little light. Always.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Stand up straight. Don’t cry.” Daddy told him, staring at the box – _casket_ – that had been covered with flowers; most of them were bright yellow like the tiny buttercups Glorfindel had brought to her room all spring.

Glorfindel glared at him. “It’s your fault,” he said crossly, “ _you promised_.”

“I know, Glorfindel… I should not have promised things I could not keep.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_My dearest Little Light,_

_Today, you turn six years old, and I wonder if you’re looking forwards to starting school – will you be joined by Ectelon, I wonder? I am sorry I did not get to meet him, but he looked nice enough from afar. Perhaps you’ll be like your father and have lots of friends at school – or maybe you’ll be more like me and keep only a few close… I think the latter, perhaps, is more likely._

_Enjoy learning, my darling, and know that I wish I could be with you, watch you take this step on the path to becoming a man._

_I love you, always._

_Mummy._

* * *

 

_My beloved Glorfindel,_

_You’re ten years old today, the big 1-0! I look at you now, sleeping beside me on the terrace and I can only just imagine what you might look like at this age – you’ll be a handsome boy, I’m sure! Do you still draw? I am looking at the picture you made me of our house overlooking the beach, and I think you could have an eye for art, if you work at it. Do you enjoy school? I don’t know where your father has sent you, of course, but I hope that you do._

_Did you know my favourite subjects were chemistry and music? I once dreamt of winning a Nobel Prize and becoming a world-renowned poetess – it seems so long ago, now…_

_Do you have a favourite sport – I want to know so many things of you, and it pains me to know that I shall not see you discover the world as I long to, but I have all faith that you will meet the challenges of life with strength and determination to match your five-year-old self._

_Find friends, my little light, and stick to the ones you cherish – then you’ll never be completely wrong._

_I love you, always._

_Mummy._

* * *

 

_For my beloved son,_

_Today, Glorfindel, you turn 14 and I wonder if my current suspicions have come true; they say that mothers often know these things, and if so I am heartbroken at the thought that the world might be unkind to you._

_Therefore, I will say this:_

_If you are gay, my son, I am not disappointed. You are not ‘wrong’, you are my brave and wonderful boy, and **I love you**. _

_Do not let anyone make you feel ashamed of who you are – no matter who that person turns out to love, because you are perfect, just as you are._

_Do not let your father’s probable silence deter you – he is not well-equipped for handling emotions, and he might never show you how proud he is of the man you will become, but I know he will feel it, for I chose well when I chose him to be my husband._

_That’s my advice to you in this letter, then: Choose well when the time comes, choose someone who makes you happy more than they make you sad, and do not try to change them, for you will waste your energy on could-bes and miss out on the here-and-now._

_I love you, always._

_Mummy._

* * *

 

_My little light,_

_No longer so little, I guess, as you’ll be 18 when this letter is opened. I can hardly imagine it, myself, for you are five with pudgy cheeks and short legs running across the sand with Nanny Haddock right now. You’ll be tall, I think – the men of both mine and your father’s families always are, and you have their bones. I see much of my brother – you won’t remember him, he died many years before you were born – when I think about what you might look like as an adult._

_At this age, you’ll be trying to find a career, and here I have little advice; only choose something you find joy in, no matter the field._

_I wonder if you have found love – I met your father when I was 14 and I never saw anyone else, but you may be different; the times may be different, too… in fact I’m sure they are!_

_I think you would be happy in love whenever it happens; even if you have to make some false starts before then. In this, I think you take after your father, the goofy dork, but the right person will love your quirks, too, so do not despair. Although do not tell your tendre – do you still call it that? No matter – that he or she reminds you of your favourite horse at Ascot when you mean that they have grown from a coltish teen into a tall slender beauty! (yes, that was your father’s opening line to me after three years apart – no, I never did let him live it down.)_

_Whatever you do, wherever you are, know this:_

_I love you, always._

_Mummy._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The letters followed him, summer birthdays and winter Yuletide, whether he was at home, at his first boarding school, at military school, or in bootcamp.

The box of letters was his most treasured possession, finding comfort in the long-ago pen-strokes that shaped each letter – she had made some of them like he did, though sometimes they were shaky and took work to read. He blushed brightly at the one he received when he was fourteen, only a year into that journey of self-realisation that _she_ had somehow seen in him when he was no more than a child.

Every year, two more were added to his box, the crisply folded pieces of paper in their neatly lettered envelopes tucked into the larger parcels he received from his father; Mummy had been right about communicating, Glorfindel knew, though he did not think she had realised how much Father blamed _Glorfindel_ for her death. If she had chosen to terminate her pregnancy to have a complete hysterectomy, the cancer would not have spread, and she would not have had to beat it when he was a new-born, nor again when he was two – she might have been alive still, had she not lost when he had just turned five and the last resurgence stole her from them. Father had been drunk when he said it, and Glorfindel 18, but words could not be unsaid no matter how many apologies followed.

The boxes of treats were easier, no need for words between them, stilted and awkward.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more of Glorfindel's family... and angst. and feels.

“Look what our son brought me,” Lilírë whispered hoarsely, smiling at him when he walked into the room that evening, carrying her dinner. She looked at him, the small yellow flower competing with her smile for brilliance.

“Glorfindel is a good boy,” he managed, pausing just inside the door and feeling the weight of Heir Apparent fall off his shoulders like slinging off a heavy cloak – taking a moment to glory in her smile, wilfully ignoring her wasted body and the machinery that surrounded her bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Sad,” she said, accepting his help to sit up even though a press of the button on the bed would have sufficed. “You need not wear that mask for me, beloved, I know it for a lie.”

Sighing, Morfind Lávarchil sat down on the edge of the mattress, putting the tray down on the small wheeled table beside the bed and gave her a smile he knew did not remove the tired strain around his mouth and eyes. “You know me too well, love,” he murmured. “Hungry?” He expected the headshake; she never was hungry on one of _those_ days, and rarely so since she had been confined to this bed at all.

“Fifteen, today,” Lilírë said softly. “I did not know how to explain my sadness to Glorfindel… Do you think we should have told him?”

“He’s too young to learn of death,” Morfind replied stubbornly.

“He will know its touch soon enough,” Lilírë replied sadly, “I am not going to live this time, and we both know it.”

“ _We know no such thing_.”

“Darling…” she murmured, placing her gaunt hand on his arm. “We do know.”

“I will not accept that,” he told her. “I _cannot_ accept it. If you hadn’t -” but he couldn’t finish that sentence, had never been able to say it to her after that first night.

“You would choose his life over mine – as _I_ would,” Lilírë replied firmly, “we always knew the risk we took, my love, but I have never regretted it.”

Catching her hand, he squeezed her fingers gently, trying to swallow the hard lump in his throat. “I do not regret it,” he whispered, “but I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“By not being _your_ father,” she smiled, returning the gentle pressure.

Morfind laughed, though it wasn’t funny, not even by a long shot. “I will do my very best at that,” he swore, lifting her hand to press a kiss against her bony knuckles.

“I know.”

“Please eat something?” he asked, stroking her cheek. “You need to keep up your strength – Doctor Hannah thinks there may be a new thing to try, soon-”

“No more treatments, Morfind,” Lilírë replied tiredly. “No more.”

“But-”

“No, my love,” she mumbled, her eyes slipping shut for a long moment. Morfind held his breath, his hand still cupping her cheek as he waited for her to take her next breath, the seconds stretching into an eternity. “I am ready to go.”

“Please, Li-Li,” he begged, one thumb tracing a sharp cheekbone, “for me – and Glorfindel. We’re not ready. Eat something.”

“I will eat, Mori,” she yawned, “but no more doctors.”

She managed three spoonfuls of the highly nutritious gruel the doctors had decreed she must eat, and only because he held the spoon for her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I told Glorfindel about death today. I don’t think it will be long, now,” Lilírë greeted, looking more like a skeleton than a human being when he walked into the warm room. She coughed weakly. “I’m cold always.”

“I can find more blankets,” Morfind replied, ignoring the first part of her sentence. She was not going to die, no matter what the doctors said.

“No, they’re scratchy. Hold me?” Lilírë said, interrupted by another cough rocking her frail form.

“Always…” Setting down the tray of food they both knew she would leave untouched, Morfind pulled off his shirt and trousers – even soft linen and cotton felt too rough on her paper-thin skin at times – and climbed onto the wide bed.

“You should do that slower next time,” Lilírë murmured, shivering into the heat of his body. She was always slender, but now he could count every rib, her hipbones like jutting mountain peaks in the topography of her body.

“Slower?” he asked, confused as he wrapped his arms around her, careful not to jostle the tubing that kept her hydrated and mostly pain-free.

“I like the way you look,” she mumbled, hiding her face in his chest. Her nose was cool against his skin. “Not that I can return the favour – I’m hardly worth a second glance these days."

Running one hand slowly down her back, Morfind smiled sadly, kissing her bald head. “You’re like a baby bird, my Li-Li,” he murmured. “And you should know by now that it doesn’t matter to me what you look like – you’re always my beautiful Li-Li, my love… my wife.”

“When I’m gone you should find-”

“No.” He held her tighter, still not capable of imagining – or believing in – a future without her in it, and wishing she’d stop saying what she’s saying, because he _couldn’t_. There had never been anyone else – and never would be. “No.”

“It’s alright,” she whispered, dry lips pressing against the skin that hid his wildly beating heart from view. “You could have-”

“ _I said NO!_ ” he snarled, every muscle tense. Terrible guilt ran into his soul when he felt her tear drip onto his bare skin, but he did not take back the outburst, _could not_. “Do not speak of this, please, Lilírë… _please_.”

Sighing, she gave up trying to lift her head.  “I don’t want you to be lonely, Mori,” Lilírë mumbled sadly, “and Glorfindel would make a lovely older brother…”

“Stop. You don’t want that any more than I do.” The thought of either of them with someone else is enough to make him feel sick, a shudder of unease licking up his spine.

“I never could lie to you.” Lilírë sighed, her tone wry.

“I told you – more than once over the years – that I shall have none but you, shall have _no children but yours_ , and I _meant_ it,” he nearly growled, gently tilting her face up to kiss away the water dotting her skin, feeling the fragility of her dry lips with his own when he kissed her softly.

“Do you think she would have played piano?” Lilírë murmured sleepily, her face coming back to rest on his chest.

Morfind sighed, catching her hand with his own and tracing one of her long bony fingers, the wedding ring too loose a fit, now, but she’d never take it off. “She had your hands, my darling – she would have played piano, I’m sure. Or harp, perhaps, like my mother.”

“And the boys?”

“Fencing, I’m sure; dancing, too. Hunting – Father would never approve of a son of our line who could not shoot – but I think you would have taught them art, and I would have… would have…” he faltered then, tears sliding down his face as he sat up, rocking her still form gently, not even caring about the blare of alarms coming from the machinery around him. “Please, Li-Li, come back… Don’t leave me alone. _Not yet… please_.”

There was no answer.


	3. The Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel comes home for Yule to find an unexpected present from both his parents.

He’d come home for Yule, finding a parcel on his bed, opening it in a state of puzzlement – Father’s present for him was given in person and by Yule, not more than a week in advance and never wrapped in brown shipping paper.

The contents had made him rear back, blushing a bright scarlet, though not as much as the companying note.

 

_Read this, Glorfindel; if you have questions afterwards I am willing to discuss them._

_Your Father,_

_Morfind Lávar_

 

Glorfindel felt that The Book was staring at him, the cover an artistic image of two silhouettes emblazoned with the title in a deceptively simple font.

‘ _A Guide To Safe Pleasure - All You Need To Know About Satisfying Your Needs And Those Of Others_ ’

He blushed.

Closing his eyes did not make _The Book_ – or the mortification – go away.

Grabbing up _The Book_ by the innocuous paper wrapping and hastily retying the string, he clutched it to his chest, darting downstairs to Father’s study, thrusting the parcel onto his large mahogany desk, almost upsetting his silver inkwell. The knot came undone, the paper flapping away to show an the image of two bodies, arms wrapped around each other and legs tangled together.

Glorfindel’s face was on fire, he was sure of it, the school tie he wasn’t wearing – always the first thing to go at end of term – constricting his throat.

Father raised an eyebrow at him.

“Something wrong, son?” he asked mildly, putting down the pen he used for writing everyday letters next to the quill he used to sign his name in a series of fine arches and curlicues.

Glorfindel stammered something unintelligible, gesturing wildly towards _The Book_.

“ _That!_ ” he said, wincing when his voice cracked in the middle of the word.

Father nodded, pushing _The Book_ back towards him. Glorfindel was determined not to look.

“I take it from your speedy return that you have not, in fact, read it?” he asked. Glorfindel scowled at him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“NO!” he yelled. “I won’t! I don’t! There’s no-!” he tried, making his words come out in a jumble of denials and protests.

“Would you rather we talk abut this subject matter?” Father wondered, nodding to himself and looking almost as reluctant as Glorfindel felt. “I thought not.”

“I won’t need to know it!” Glorfindel tried desperately, gesturing at the cover of The Book.

“I… why not?” Father asked, frowning slightly, removing the reading glasses from his nose and giving Glorfindel that blue-eyed stare that always made him squirm and admit to his wrongdoings.

Glorfindel glared back stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just won’t!” he cried, turning on his heel without being dismissed and running from the study, leaving Father and _The Book_ behind as he raced across the lawns.

Climbing the ancient oak tree where he used to seek sanctuary from Grandfather’s sermons on proper behaviour, Glorfindel took his accustomed seat, hiding his face in his knees even if there was no one around to watch his flaming cheeks.

“Glorfindel…” Father said quietly, coming to a halt beneath him, leaning on his cane as he peered up through the branches. “Will you come down to speak to me?”

Glorfindel shook his head mutely, feeling ashamed of his outburst.

Below him, Father nodded, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and leaning his cane against the trunk of the tree as he laid it across the seat of the swing that had always hung from the old branch, swinging slowly back and forth.

“I met your mother here,” he said softly, “she used to climb this tree, too, to watch the estate and keep an eye on her father when he was working in the gardens during her summer holiday.”

Glorfindel did not reply, daring to glance down, catching the small smile on Father’s face.

“I’d come here, only fifteen myself, and so convinced I was a man already, knew everything I could ever need to know.” He chuckled. “I was wrong, but your mother… she gave me a book much like the one I gave you and forced me to read it – part of school down in the village, you see, though not a topic of real education at the school I went to; your school.”

Glorfindel made a sound that he tried to stifle, but he wanted to hear about his mother. Father rarely wanted to speak of her for long, and it was almost worth the horror of _The Book_ ’s existence to hear this glimpse of Lilírë Lysild as she had been.

“I admit, I only read it because of her,” Father said quietly, “but it was… helpful. Later.” Clearing his throat slightly, he swung back and forth.

“I won’t need it,” Glorfindel repeated stubbornly, speaking to his knees.

“Perhaps not,” Father agreed amiably, “but it won’t hurt you to know… and it might hurt you to _not_ know something that such books could teach you.”

“No, Father,” Glorfindel sighed, feeling a certain recklessness stir in his soul, “I _won’t need it_.” The breeze through the branches was cold with the promise of snow later, and Glorfindel shivered. Neither he nor Father had put on a coat before the impromptu dash across the lawn and he was beginning to feel the cold over his mortification.

“Why not?” Father asked, looking up at him through the bare branches. “Giving and receiving pleasure is a part of most adult relationships, you know. I don’t think you’ll be alone forever…”

“But I’m gay!” Glorfindel exploded, nearly falling out of the tree in shock at hearing himself say it out loud. Father was silent below. Glorfindel cowered against the trunk of the tree. _What would Father think of him now?_

Father laughed. Loud and bright, he actually _laughed_ at the most terrifying words Glorfindel had ever spoken to him. Glorfindel felt his chin drop to his chest, but hadn’t enough presence of mind to pick up his jaw, staring down at father who was _still laughing_.

“Very well, Glorfindel,” he said, still hiccupping a few laughs in between words, “now I have a _different present for you-_

 _Please don’t give me a gay version!_ Glorfindel thought, mind whirling.

“Will you come down? It’s beastly cold out, if you hadn’t noticed, and we’re hardly dressed for winter.”

Glorfindel shook his head, glaring at Father. How dare he just laugh and pretend Glorfindel being gay meant nothing to him?

“Please, son,” Father said, getting to his feet with a grimace of pain and snatching for his cane. “Blasted leg,” he grumbled under his breath, leaning on the cane and looking up at Glorfindel when he had found his balance again, “Come inside with me.”

“Don’t… don’t be mad,” Glorfindel whispered, suddenly fearful. Swinging his legs over, he scrambled for a moment to find his usual foothold, climbing unsteadily down the gnarled trunk until he was standing next to Father, staring at his feet.

“Oh, Glorfindel,” Father sighed, raising his face with a gentle hand. “I’m not mad, not at all.” Wrapping his arm around Glorfindel’s shoulders, Father tugged him closer, pressing his face into his chest. “You are my brave boy, and if you’ll be bringing home boys rather than girls I’ll still be happy so long as they treat you well,” he promised, making no mention of the tears that soaked into the shirt of his chest.

Glorfindel breathed in the comforting smell of woodsmoke and Father’s familiar cologne, enjoying the warm strength of the hug that was exactly the same as the last time he’d stood like that, trying not to weep over the pain of his broken wrist.

“Come on, then, son,” Father said quietly, keeping the arm wrapped around his shoulders as they moved back towards the house, the floor-length curtains blowing freely out the French doors of the study. “We’ll ring for some tea.”

 

Inside, seated by the fire roaring lustily in the marble fireplace, the painting of Mother looking down at him with a tender smile and his hands wrapped around a hot much of tea prepared to perfection by Nanny Haddock, Glorfindel dared look up at Father, who was rummaging in a box and rustling with paper. Humming to himself, he picked up _The Book_ , setting it down on the small side table next to Glorfindel who refused to acknowledge its existence.

“I still expect you to read ‘Safe Pleasures’,” Father said, in the tone of voice that meant Glorfindel would have to bite that bullet eventually, “but you should read this first.”

Squeezing Glorfindel’s shoulder once, Father dropped a familiar envelope in his lap, retreating to his own wing backed armchair and the gently steaming cup of tea awaiting him, pulling the knit tartan blanket over his legs.

“It’s… one of Mummy’s letters,” Glorfindel said wonderingly, tracing the loops and lines of ‘ _My Darling Son_ ’ written across the front.

Father hummed from his chair. “A touch early,” he murmured, but Glorfindel hardly heard him over the sound of the envelope tearing open.

 

_For my beloved son,_

_Today, Glorfindel, you turn 14 and I wonder if my current suspicions have come true; they say that mothers often know these things, and if so I am heartbroken at the thought that the world might be unkind to you._

_Therefore, I will say this:_

_If you are gay, my son, I am not disappointed. You are not ‘wrong’, you are my brave and wonderful boy, and **I love you**._

_Do not let anyone make you feel ashamed of who you are – no matter who that person turns out to love, because you are perfect, just as you are._

_Do not let your father’s probable silence deter you – he is not well-equipped for handling emotions, and he might never show you how proud he is of the man you will become, but I know he will feel it, for I chose well when I chose him to be my husband._

_That’s my advice to you in this letter, then: Choose well when the time comes, choose someone who makes you happy more than they make you sad, and do not try to change them, for you will waste your energy on ‘could-be’s and miss out on the here-and-now._

_I love you, always._

_Mummy._

 

He was too old to be held like a baby on Father’s lap, being rocked slowly as his hand stroked his hair, Glorfindel knew, but it felt too good to leave Father’s reassuring hold and the soft voice murmuring in his ear, telling him everything would be alright, his fingers clutching his letter so tightly he might never let go, reading that one line over and over.

_You are not ‘wrong’, you are my brave and wonderful boy, and **I love you**._

The words and Mother’s portrait followed him on the current of Father’s soothing rumble until Glorfindel did not know whether he was still awake but quite certain he did not care to move to find out, listening to Father’s steady heartbeat under his ear, his blanket warm around him.


End file.
